Allx

There are at least twenty different USB sticks lying around. All with different storage limits and all full, tucked away in a cracked Tupperware container and kept at his desk. A good 80% of them are random, and frankly horrible, photos Habit has snapped; Mid bite of your sandwich, a really zoomed in one of how you were sticking your tongue out while playing a video game—Stupid things that make you a little embarrassed when he pulls them up.

Then there are the creepy ones, the videos that you tend to watch only once to satiate your own morbid curiosity. There are three or four videos taken in the cover of the night from the treeline, camera zoomed in as far as it can go to watch you and your friends through the living room window. The only audible thing in these clips is Habit’s shaky breathing and slick, rhythmic noises. There are also clips taken in public from various locations, all consisting of you doing your daily tasks. Through the lobby window of your doctor's office, across the street from the bus stop, or in the back alley as he watches you pass by.

You don’t even want to think about the idea of hidden cameras, or if there are videos that remain secret for your own good.

Habit is a stalker, plain and simple. Somehow, that feels like the nicest crime he’s subjected you to.

The other USBs—the bigger, fancier ones—have some more… Personal things on them. They’re stored in a different location, hidden on the floor of your closet underneath old clothes you rarely wear anymore. A lot of the photos are still bad, blurry and rushed like Habit was nervous. Some of the oldest ones are of you changing, taken through the ajar closet door. Half of them are with your shirt obscuring your face, jeans pooled around your ankles. The others are more explicit, often where you’re bending down or fully naked, although most of those are shaky and smeared.

As much as you’d like to say that they’re like that because Habit was scared about getting caught, you know that it’s because he was jerking himself off and unable to keep the camera steady.

He, unsurprisingly, loves to film some home-made pornos. One of Habit’s favourites was made after you had just finished a double shift. The sun was just starting to peek through the curtains, although you had just gone to bed, asleep on your back and all sprawled out in nothing but panties and one of Evan’s old band tees. The camcorder sat on the edge of the bed and angled towards your body, sitting far enough to get what Habit really cared about.

He was gentle then, only to keep from waking you. Habit had to keep one hand on your hip to stop you from rolling over, the other pinning both of your wrists down into your pillow. You’re quiet, not as silent as Habit, but he has to turn the volume way up to hear your soft whimpers and moans. Even with a slow pace, your sounds are all overshadowed by the slick sound of your cunt.

There are so many photos—like hundreds—of you covered with his cum. You don’t even remember Habit taking some of these. Some of them are facials given after a blowjob, others of your cunt on the rare occasion he decides to pull out. There are the questionable ones, like where your thighs are wet with a mixture of blood and his cum. If that blood is yours, Habit’s, or an unnamed third party is unknown and better left that way.

Habit has a special folder named ‘TABOO’. It consists of the darker stuff he’s convinced you to do—A lot of murder and mutilation, really. Maybe a few clips of him chasing you through the woods and what happens after you’re caught. He saves those videos for when he has that specific itch he can’t readily scratch.

He also likes it when you record everything, too. He even got you your very own camera, nicked from a random hiker who took too many bird photos. There’s still some blood caked into the nooks and crannies, forever stuck despite your best cleaning efforts.

There aren’t nearly as many photos of him as there are of you. Most of the time, Habit smacks the camera away or looks way too creepy for it to be usable—His smile way too wide and eyes too bright, reflecting as an animal would. A lot of them are also cut off at the neck, leaving just his body in frame. His hands or him distracted seem to be the topic of the majority of your photos.

But Habit doesn’t want to look at himself. He’s had to remind you several times that he wants you to film videos and take photos for him, not for yourself. Most of what you record are short vlogs of what you do when he’s gone. They’re exported to a drive you both have access to; one Habit only goes to when he’s away from you.

There’s something about you just yapping. He knows that you know he’s touching himself to these, but you look so… Oblivious in the videos. Habit loves it when you act ignorant to his disgusting behaviours. He loves it when you willingly indulge them, too.

If he’s lucky enough, you’ll send him some different videos. Maybe you’re in one of his button-ups, maybe you’re holding one of his knives and dragging the edge against the fat of your thigh. Consider him a happy man if you slip a nude Polaroid into his back pocket, wearing nothing but his Death-Proof cap and a grin.

He always sends something back, too. More often than not, it’s a photo, a quickly snapped pic of how hard he is through his jeans. On the off chance that Habit can send a video, it’s always in a dark location, and sometimes there’s a poorly hidden corpse in the background. The clips are quick and usually end right before he cums, groans poorly suppressed and the only thing audible aside from the slide of his hand against his cock.

Anyway, cameras have got to be one of humanity's best inventions. Habit doesn’t know what he’d do without them.

He’d surely perish without your face in his pocket.

Thankfully, the guy Habit had been chasing had been incredible at ignoring the constant buzzes coming from his pursuer's back pocket. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under Habit’s boots, the footfalls dulled by the heavy drag of a body against the ground. Distantly, an owl hoos from between the dreary trees. The slivers of moonlight that penetrate through the clouds diffuse against the branches, leaving the woods in an unnatural darkness.

It’s been quiet for the past thirty minutes aside from the occasional gust of wind and the non-stop rambling from Habit’s victim. Honestly, he’s surprised the guy has remained conscious for this long, well on his way to crashing down from his adrenaline and cocaine high. Habit had plucked the guy straight from a college party that he was way too old for after you told him he had been a little too handsy at your workplace.

Habit just wanted to have a friendly chat. It just so happened that his version of talking involved several sharp objects and various other instruments.

As he anticipated, however, the end of their little walk in the woods ceased when the fair silence was broken by a new wave of notifications.

He, at first, ignored it like he had been doing for the past three days, only for the quick and sporadic dings to morph into a continuous drone.

Really? You’re calling now, of all times?

Habit would let the call go to voicemail, but knowing you, you’d just call him over and over again until he finally gave in and picked up. Wonder where you got that stubbornness from.

With a quiet hiss, he drops the man's bound ankles from his grip and instead hovers above him. Habit stabs his machete into the mucky ground below, the edge clipping the side of the man's calf. He steps closer then, one of his boots planting itself directly next to his victim's head. The toe box of it digs against his cheek—a not-so-subtle way of telling his victim to keep his mouth shut—as Habit digs out his phone.

Your name displays itself on the screen, accented by several emoticons you tacked on. Beneath your contact information was the notification bar: 99+ missed messages, 13 missed calls. Jesus, do you really have so little care for your phone bill? Habit clicks his tongue while flipping his phone open, clicking the accept button and then pressing the phone to his ear.

“What?” Habit bites, and he hears you let out a breathy laugh. “It’s two in the morning. What do you need?”

“Hello to you too,” you greet, “I was starting to think you were ignoring me.”

Habit tuts and draws his gaze across the trees. It ends up falling to the man below him. “You ever think that there may be a reason for that?”

“Never. What're you doing?”

“What I always do,” Habit answers vaguely. You sigh dramatically.

“Well then,” a door closes on your side, “do you have a minute?”

Habit rolls his eyes. “A minute or thirty?”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, “do you?”

Habit grunts in acknowledgement and rolls the man over onto his back, a sole-shaped print now staining his bloodied and muddied shirt. His boot repositions itself to press against the man's pulse point, the dirtied rubber cooling the skin of his neck.

You called him all the time. Now and then he answered, usually letting you drone on and on while on speaker, usually while Habit chopped up his kill. It was no big deal, even if you got him distracted. He always got his tasks done, and you never seemed to mind—or even notice—the grotesque sounds coming from Habit’s end of the line.

Except, this is the first time he’s heard your voice since he left over four days ago.

Call him needy if you want, but Habit really didn’t realise how much he missed you until you started blindly rambling about workplace drama with little regard for what he was currently doing. Habit’s cheek twitched, fingers tightening briefly around his phone. When it came down to it, Habit would never confess the effect you had on him. But, having his cock harden in his jeans over a man who had flirted with you was an admittance in itself.

Habit exhales defeatedly. When you’re on the road, you have to make do.

Even if that ‘make do’ is jerking off to your distracted girlfriend with your victim beneath you.

Habit comes to when you groan in annoyance. “He hasn’t showed up to work in three days. I actually think he’s missing, which sucks because I’ll have even more work shoved on me,” you vent, “I dunno, it’s just… Are you sure you have a second? You’re never this quiet.”

“Nah, I got time,” Habit chuffs, “gotta lot of it.” Temporarily pinning Evan’s cracked phone between his ear and shoulder, his hands slide down to his pants to quickly undo them. Habit doubts that the jingle of his belt buckle opening is inaudible, quickly followed by the quick bite of his zipper being tugged down. You fail to mention anything, so Habit slips a hand past his waistband.

His fingertips leave smears of blood from his hip bone down to the base of his cock. He’s not even half-hard, palm slick with rapidly drying blood. Habit’s entire front is coated in the syrupy liquid, his arms filthy with the vicious substance. It seeps into the wrinkles of his hands, cakes under his nails, and flakes off when warmed between the rub of his skin.

It’s a pretty poor substitute for lube, biting dully at his skin as Habit slid the palm of his hand from tip to base. He found himself grimacing—not because of the glue-like blood and definitely not because Habit was masturbating above a barely conscious guy while you talk on, somehow oblivious.

But because it feels… wrong. It feels offensive to you, like Habit’s weird version of cheating—coating himself so intimately with someone else’s blood, as though that thought in itself was not taboo.

It’s not like you’d care, and it’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Hell, he’s done it with a living, coherent victim tied up in front of him with nothing but the memory of you riding his face.

But, Habit likes it more when the blood is yours—fresh or not. He savours the give of your skin when sinking his teeth into it and the sweet aftertaste when you shove him away. He tends not to clean the knives he uses on you, so when you’re gone, he can lick the dried blood off the edge. His victim’s blood would suffice, but Habit makes a mental note to cut you open and bathe himself in yours when he gets back.

Without a second thought, Habit lifts his left leg and presses the arch of his boot onto his victim’s throat. It’s a light, resting weight, but enough to squeeze a grainy wheeze out of his throat. He twitched and writhed with the slowed intake of air, but at least he wasn’t blubbering as much.

Fully pulling his cock out from his jeans, Habit sighed when passing his palm over the head of it. You were talking about restocking or reselling or something—he hadn’t been paying much attention—but the little inhales you make between sentences and the small hum you make after a particularly bold statement easily got Habit hard.

Maybe it was your ignorance. Maybe he liked your subconscious behaviours as much as you liked his.

It didn’t matter. Nothing really did when it came to you.

Habit resumed his death grip on his phone, but instead held it a few inches away from his head as he lifted his hand from his cock. While spit was probably the worst lube possible, it would serve its purpose in re-wetting the crusted blood streaking his skin. Habit lets out a small moan when smearing the saliva down his shaft, spit rapidly drying. It was enough to turn the blood into a thin, frothy pink substance, giving Habit just enough leeway for his movements not to be stiff.

The froth makes a gross noise, wet and sticky, as Habit drags his hand along himself. He looks up from the ground and instead fixes his gaze towards the sky. The few stars that happened to peek through the rips in the cloudy sky would remain the only witnesses to his transgressions within the forest bounds, forever silent and all-observant.

Habit likes to think they keep his secrets as much as he keeps theirs.

The night’s cold air nips at his skin as he strokes himself. Habit wasn’t exactly being discreet with his trembly exhales and mumbled mewls, and there’s no way that you haven’t picked up on the loud burbling noises as Habit drags his taut hand along the length of his cock. You’re still chatting, on about a movie or series you were going to make him watch, and Habit almost misses the muffled rustle of fabric in between your words.

“What’re you doing?” Habit asks, and he hears another thing slam closed. It wasn’t as thin-sounding as a door, maybe a cabinet or a drawer.

“Stuff,” you reply, likely a mock at Habit’s own vagueness. He rolls his shoulder, head tilting forward with annoyance.

“Stuff,” Habit repeats, “you’re doing stuff?”

“Hey, that’s how this works. If you’re-” you shut up abruptly, “What was that?”

Likewise, Habit also froze, hand stopping mid-stroke. “What’s what?” he utters, “Nothing, it’s nothing.” Habit didn’t know if you were talking about his quiet groans and uneven breathing or the man beneath him who had just crowed out a fairly pitiful ‘please’. As punishment, Habit presses his boot down harder. The man’s airway almost compresses fully, leaving him only short and rough rasps.

“Are you okay?” You rephrase.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He swallowed, slowly dragging his hand back up his cock.

“You’re breathing like you just got finished running.”

Shit. “Yeah, I-I did,” Groaning quietly, Habit gently glides his thumb over his tip. "You know you’re calling me in the middle of a job.”

“I thought you said you had time,” you recall, “but it’s fine. I’ll let you get back to it.” Habit assumes that you reach for the disconnect call button, and before he can realise what he's doing, he blurts. “Wait,” There's a heavy silence before Habit swallows, “I do have time. If you called me to yap, then yap.”

The only sound from your side was the quiet flump of your phone hitting the bed. Finally, you reply, if only a little short of breath, “Are you alone?” Habit’s back straightens with the question, fingers tightening around himself. He tilts his head towards the man beneath him, although his gaze doesn’t linger for long. “Ish,” Habit trills, “Alone-ish.”

“Alone-ish? What does that mean?” Your tone makes Habit moan quietly. So blissfully ignorant. A grin spreads on his face when he pictures the disgusted look on your face, repulsion replacing itself with learned depravity. If you were to be standing in front of him, what would you say? Would you be willing, or would Habit have to hold you down? If he asked it of you, would you touch yourself in the same scenario he’s in?

Habit’s head tilted back. Slivers of moonlight illuminated the pale stretch of his neck and caught on the now days-old love bites. “It means be quick.” His hand speeds up and catches on the head of his cock with every pass. Habit lets out a shaky exhale and puts more weight onto his front leg, and a loud pop comes from beneath him. A bone gives away—probably his hyoid—and in return makes his neck a lot more squishy.

Habit curses, the whisper followed by a series of uneven and fast-paced breaths. If he were to focus hard enough, Habit could replace the stiff neck beneath him with your soft and tender one. Habit doubts he’d snap your neck like he was doing currently, but he’d give almost anything to see tread-shaped purple and yellow bloom from one of your most vital spots.

Over your side, Habit can hear almost inaudible breathy sighs. You snicker, “Are you sure you’re okay? You… Kinda sound like you’re touching yourself.”

In return, Habit snorts. “Funny, ‘cause I think I can say the same for you.”

You laugh again, the sound fading out into a soft whine. “I’m not the one working.”

“Yeah, and I’m not the one messaging you a hundred fuckin’ times. Seriously, what’re you doing?”

A heavy sigh comes from Habit’s phone, “Listening to my boyfriend touch himself.”

“Ah, never woulda guessed,” Habit groans at your airy laugh and hopes it comes off as irritation. The blood and saliva mixture coating his hand and cock had started to thicken, now a similar gummy substance to when he first started. Instead of re-wetting the mix with his spit as he’d done before, Habit leans down to shove two of his fingers into the oozing stab wound on the man's stomach. It makes a sick squelching noise—not dissimilar to when Habit fucks you on your period.

The liquid was opaque in the silver moonlight, glimmering softly as Habit stood up. It trailed down his fingers, droplets making their way down his palm. Before it could reach his wrist, Habit smeared his fingers—front and back—across his cock. The blood would coagulate quickly, just like the spit, but at least it’d last for a few minutes more.

Habit takes himself in his hand again, mixing the fresh blood with the caking fluids. He’s fervid in his motions, skin slicking with the already bubbling fluids. You’re still talking, breaking up your own words with moans and an occasional wet noise. Habit can’t tell your pace or if you’re even fingering yourself, not that he has enough patience to match you in the first place. He trills, harshly squeezing himself as he gets close. The blood gums with his erratic strokes, hand dragging with the sticky substance and creating a dull bite with each of his tugs.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck.” Habit’s victim forced in a laboured, rough breath as his boot pressed down, now effectively clamping his airway shut. Maybe Habit had forgone caring, or maybe he simply didn’t notice that he had shifted most of his weight onto his front leg. Maybe he did notice, and maybe he did care, but the thought of that cunt beneath him overhearing your moans pushed him past the point of logical reasoning.

It would only be a few more seconds before Habit loudly groaned, hips stuttering towards his hand as he came. Habit didn’t stop stroking himself until an awful crunching noise came from the man beneath him. Habit shouted his curse words this time, snapping his phone shut while you were mid-sentence. As he shoved his phone back into his pocket, the man beneath him gave a final wet heave, body slackening immediately when Habit lifts his boot and sets it back on soil.

With a short grunt, Habit shakes his hand. It doesn’t do much to get the blood and cum off, and what remains is wiped off on Habit’s thigh. “Yeah, yeah,” Habit snarls, “I’m comin’.” He zips his jeans back up with a quiet hum, snatching his machete from its temporary earthy sheath.

Bending down to grab the man’s still-bound ankles, Habit croons, “It’s the missus.” After straightening up, Habit adjusts the death-proof cap on his head. "Y'know how it is; always wantin’ your attention even when you’re busy. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Habit wavered, “Or not. She’s not a big fan of other guys.” A beat. "Anyone, really," he quickly tacked on.

At least he’d finally get some silence, save for the seven calls he let go to voicemail.

He’d pick up later. He always does.